by Rachael Wing
“Wes,” I murmured, still inspecting my self-done pedi. “Could we just go upstairs? Like, now?”
Wes looked away from his mother, then to my quiet, pleading expression, and then back to his mother in a moment of heightened unease.
“We,” he said pointedly, finally breaking the silence, “are going upstairs. If you need anything, just shout.”
Wes strode to the sweeping marble (what a surprise!) staircase accompanied by the squeaks of his shoes, and I moved a few paces to follow, moving fast past Mrs Stone and not looking up.
Slap-clunk. Slap –
What was that –
– clunk.
Noise?
Slap-clunk.
Look down.
Pick up a foot.
Slap.
Put down a foot.
Clunk.
At that moment I vowed never to wear flip-flops again.
Slapsqueakclunksqueakslapsqueakclunksqueakslap-squeakclunk
I ran over to the staircase as Wes strode and between the two of us we made quite the crescendo. Way to make a dignified exit… Not.
Mrs Stone sighed, and raised her eyebrows just a fraction.
“So when will you dispose of those shoes then, darling?” she said, as if she hadn’t heard his previous statements.
Wes took a deep breath and looked back at the Armani-covered witch.
“I’ll chuck them when you start to admit that I don’t want to be Abercrombie and/or Fitch, or when you start to acknowledge the friends that I’ve chosen. I’m not sure which will happen first, but to be honest, I’m not holding my breath.”
I looked up at Mrs Stone, half expecting her face to turn to ice, her eyes to fire, and for harpy wings to sprout out of the back of her multi-thousand-pound suit jacket; but she just stood there with the lazy smile still in place, fixing her son with a level gaze.
“Show me when you try on the clothes,” she ordered, once again as if she hadn’t heard him. She continued on her way across the entrance hall over to the large oak study, her sophisticated heels making the delicate click-click-click once more, and Margo tottering in her wake with her “cat-got-the-cream” smile. In mid-stride, Mrs Stone finished her sentence. “And darling? When you walk, do pick up your feet.”
*
“So it’s time for The Plan!” I exclaimed, after I had calmed Wes down with some ice cream from our emergency stash in the upstairs kitchen – otherwise known as the Spanish kitchen, by Margo and Finn, because it’s Juanita’s own personal kitchen that she can use for herself. It’s small, but has a big fridge-freezer, which comes in handy for our secret stashes. In this house, ice cream is seen as evil (as it has more than two calories, so is obviously the work of demons) and so there isn’t any in the family kitchen or larder. Juanita is more than aware of the rules, so when she goes shopping, we slip her a bit of cash and she gets us some in, and hides it in her kitchen in return for us lending her 90s boy/girl band CDs to improve her English. She’s quite fond of singing “Spice Up Your Life” in the middle of making a curry, which always makes us smile. There is also a large tub of Ozzie’s best chocolate ice cream (he calls it “SuperChocolate!”) but that is for code one, dire, red-alert, ground-shaking disasters, like if Lizzy got taken to hospital, or if a Faeries gig got cancelled, or if we lost an iPod.
I’d managed to coax him into sitting on his bed with a spoon and tub whilst I had rummaged around his (rubbish tip of a) room for his iPod, plugged it into his (beast of a) docking station, and put on “Two Years” by The Faeries. It’s about a boy who is stuck at home with his drunkard dad and a mum who couldn’t care less, and how he can’t wait to move out in two years’ time – sample lyric: I’ll shout and scream myself hoarse/Just so you can hear/The point you always seem to miss/Only two more years of this/Our harmonious family bliss.
OK, so his dad isn’t a drunk, he’s actually a really nice guy; a lot like Wes but with silvery hair, a posh accent and not a lot of spare time, because he’s a surgeon at some big private hospital in London and spends most of his time there. But his mum really couldn’t care less, so, for our economy-class Wes stuck in a business-class society where not one person listens to a word he says, the song’s pretty fitting.
Soon enough, those sweet chord slides had soothed his mind, and I turned his thoughts on to other things. We had come round to the Palace to discuss a Matter of Great Importance.
“The gig!” I exclaimed, suddenly business-like. “That is going to be our first mode of attack.”
I pulled out my folder from my bag and took out a clean sheet of paper from it, wrote “Plan BARBIE” in the middle, drew a circle around it and looked expectantly at Wes.
“Crikey, you are prepared, aren’t you?” he said a little worriedly, and read the sheet. He raised his eyebrows. “Why ‘Plan Barbie’?”
I tutted with impatience and rolled my eyes. “Keep up, Wezzer, it’s code for ‘Super-intricate and amazing plan to get Wes the new all-American girl hottie called Emily Drew to be his super-cool girlfriend for ever and ever’. Duh!”
He laughed. “I don’t want her ‘for ever and ever’, but yeah, I get the gist, you geek. So Friday, we have a plan?”
“Well, I have a plan that I’m giving to you. All you have to do is follow it and she’ll come running, but it is important that you do not deviate from The Plan. Do you understand?”
Wes nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am. Completely. Tell me The Plan.”
“Right. Margo has already unknowingly put into place Step One and Two of The Plan.”
Wes looked a little surprised. “She did? When was that?”
“Today, when she asked Emily to the gig on Friday. That was Step Two. Step One was to make her part of our group.” As I explained, I wrote it all down on the piece of paper like a giant spider-diagram I was told about in maths revision sessions. I’ve never used one before because I tend not to revise for trivial subjects such as maths, but it was actually pretty fun – I used colours and pictures for each Step in The Plan. I was really getting into it. “You see, if we make her a part of our group, then she will see us more often. If we see her more often, it is more opportunity for her to see you and how fantastic, amazing, funny and gorgeous you are—”
“You think I’m gorgeous?” Wes asked, eyes twinkling behind his glasses.
I suppose he’s quite cute, in a way; nice eyes, good skin, great hair, nice smile – but it’s Wes. I mean, come on, I don’t look at him in that way…
“Nyeh, you’ll do,” I replied easily with a grin, as he poked me in the ribs. “But this week, you’ve got to be tip-top fitty, inside and out. This leads us to Step Three: finding out what she likes. I’ll do some cunning girl-chat to find out what her type is, and we’ll play up that side of your personality. We’re going to pick out some stuff for you to wear for the rest of the week, and as I snoop and find out what she likes, we’ll get you to emphasize that with your Wes-style…!”
“OK,” smiled Wes. “So we get her into the group, we get her to come to the gig, we make me look good during the week … then what?”
My devious grin widened. “You get cosy at the gig, and prepare to ask her to come with us to Midsummer Rave, bay-bay.”
“Are you sure that this will work?” Wes asked uncertainly, rereading my scribbled mish-mash of notes on The Plan. “It all sounds a bit simple.”
“My darling boy,” I purred, putting on my best Margo impression, “the course of true love always did run smooth.”
Wes frowned.
“Erm, no, actually, Shakespeare begs to differ: ‘The course of true love never did run smooth’.”
Dammit. I said English has never been my strong point.
“Well, whatever. Shakey or no Shakey, The Plan will work and you will get your Barbie doll and I will get Jonah and it will be epic times all round…”
&nb
sp; I grinned. Everything was about to fall into place, and I was falling into my favourite daydream: I’d get Wes fixed up with Barbie, then I’d get Jonah to come share our tent, then we’d dance the weekend away, and then he’d turn around and say in a really husky and slightly Italian accent—
“Holly, bambino, you have-a always a-been the most bella girrl, the only girl for-a-me!” Wes exclaimed, stretching out his arm to me and laughing as he said it.
I had previously shared the Italian-sounding Jonah daydream with Wes, which was a big mistake, as now when I’m in the middle of a daydream he will start doing an awful impression of it, and I never finish my dishy daydream-fest. Annoying, stupid boy.
“Shut UP, you fool!” I cried with a huge smile as I berated him with a rather fluffy pillow, and he grabbed one too and started biffing me over the head with it.
“Aaah, NOOO, my hair! This means war!”
I rolled over and yanked another pillow off the bottom of his bed, then commando-rolled back with the duvet flying everywhere and tried to take him out from the knees, but he was too strong for my stupid weak, girlish arms and so managed to sit on top of me, strip me of all my pillows and hold one threateningly above his head with an evil smile plastered on his face, hair and glasses askew.
“Surrender?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Never!” I cried, wiggling to get free, but shielding my eyes too in case of an unexpected biffing from Wes’s pillow.
“All right,” he sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “Your funeral.”
At which he lifted the pillow high above his head and brought it down so I had to squeal:
“Noooo! No, I surrender, I surrender! Just don’t pummel me PLEASE!”
He started to laugh. Putting the pillow down, he gave me his hands so we could stand up and pulled me up with him, but the duvet slipped under us on to the floor, everything went everywhere, and we ended up crashing back down on to the mattress, laughing like right loons and not breathing.
I was laughing so much that I cried, and started gasping for air. We sat up and he gave me a hug.
“Breathe or you’ll pass out!” he laughed, and patted my back gently.
“Well, well, doesn’t this just look cosy?”
We broke apart, me still breathing uneasily with a bright red face and both of us looking a bit of a mess. Ooop. I can see how this would look to an outsider.
“What?! Me and, and Wes?! No, no, no,” I exclaimed in a gush of words, shaking my head and untangling myself from Wes. I know how she likes to stir things. “So not what you think!”
Margo raised an eyebrow.
“Dear, that was just a bit of soft mockery – but it seems that your defence mechanism is working right on the ticket. And what is this?”
She bent down with perfect grace and picked up The Plan. The Plan with four different colours, and glitter pen, and pictures … and “SECRET” written at the top (yeah, so I got a little carried away! I’m not sixteen yet, I’m still a kid!). When I had been making it, it had been a giggle, but now it was in her hands I felt a bit pathetic.
“‘Plan Barbie’?” She looked up at Wes with a frown. “You like what you see in Emily? Isn’t she a bit …” Margo flicked a look at me, and then back to Wes. “… far from your usual type?”
“Girl is his type,” I replied, standing up to take The Plan out of her hands. I held mine out to her to receive the paper, but she wouldn’t let go right away. Margo surveyed me closely with her big, cold eyes before letting it go; and as I walked back to the bed, she turned and stalked out from the room.
She waved her hand lazily behind her as she walked out the door. “Good luck, Winston. I daresay you’ll need it.”
“Holly, are you up yet?”
No, I am still asleep and trying to ignore you.
“Hols!”
I rolled over and snuggled deeper into my duvet, tugging it over my head so Mum became a muffled background sound. I didn’t want to get up. I’d been having this amazing dream—
I was at this club, and the strobes had been going, and I’d been “throwing shapes in the Temple of Dance”, as my dad calls it (normal people call it “dancing”), and suddenly The Faeries turned up and just started dancing with me! Chevans (drummer and charmer of the band) was looking me up and down, and kept winking; Vikki (the tiny blonde bassist, with all sorts of colours through her short hair) started to get her groove on with me, so we had a little shimmy; and then Matt (he’s the gorgeous, moody lead guitarist who has a messy mop of curls and the best butt I’ve ever seen) started twirling me around, and I just couldn’t stop laughing. It was so funny. In the strobe I couldn’t see much and it was just so cool, I couldn’t believe I was dancing with my idols, and then Matt twirled me around and around and around but I let go of his hand and flew straight into the arms of Robin Goodfellow, lead singer and bonafide, grade-A, lusher-than-lush super-star rock god. And he was getting closer, the strobes highlighting his gorgeous cheekbones and bright green eyes, and we inched closer and closer in slow motion for a perfect moment, I was so close—
And then my darling mother woke me up.
Drat.
But it had been a pretty spectacular dream, so I was still smiley when Mum came in, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, laden with clean washing wedged under one arm and the phone in the other. She shoved the phone into my face.
“It’s your father.”
Good morning to you too, Mother! I do hope you slept well.
I grunted in thanks and picked up the phone.
“Morning, Dad,” I mumbled, trying to find my voice.
“Hello, Berry! How are you this morning?”
He has always called me Berry, because I’m Holly, so I’m his little Berry, blah blah blah. It’s nice, but no one else is allowed to call me it. It would just be wrong. Dad’s voice was far too awake and cheerful for this time in the morning, but he had been up for a while because he’s a postman. He works the night shift in the sorting warehouses, and then works the morning shift for delivery, so I don’t see him loads, but he always rings first thing in the morning before I go to school.
Mum gracefully plonked the pile of clean washing on the bottom of my bed, picked her way over to my windows and, before I could stop her, threw open my curtains and pushed open my window in one movement.
“Ahhh, my eyes!”
“Did your mum open the curtains?” he chuckled.
“Don’t stay in bed, as you’ll be late! You need to get up – school won’t wait!” Mum sing-songed on her way out of my room.
Ahh, too much activity for this early in the morning!
“It’s not that early, it’s eight o’clock!” Dad replied.
I didn’t even realize I had said that aloud I was so tired; stupid school, starting so—
“Eight o’clock?!” I cried down the phone, suddenly quite awake. “Oh pants, I was supposed to be up ages ago, Wes is waiting for me!”
Dad laughed softly. “It’s always a rush at the Hockers’ household! Just tell me that you’re happy, healthy and alive and I’ll let you go.”
“Happy? Yes. Healthy? Yes. Alive? Almost!” I shot out as I searched frantically for my hairbrush. I looked in my mirror and winced at my reflection: cat pyjamas and a strappy top, my hair like a bush and sleepy eyes? Ouch. “Are you OK, Dad?”
“Fit as a fiddle!” sang my dad. What is it with the rhyming and alliteration from my family so early in the morning?! It’s what comes with having young children, I swear; everything turns into a children’s TV show. “The sun is shining, I am smiling and I’m most of the way through my shift, so I can’t complain!”
I heard a clatter from somewhere below me and Lizzy gave an almighty wail. Mum’s voice rang through the house:
“Hols, can you help me feed Liz? I need to do my hair – I’ve got a lesson at quarter past!”
Mum teaches extra English to some kids at school. She’s got a new pupil starting today, but couldn’t see them after school because she’s got to take Liz to the dentist. They rearranged for this morning instead, I forgot. Damn! I’m going to have to text Wes and tell him to take the next step of The Plan without me.
“It all sounds a bit hectic there, love, so I’m going to let you get on. I’ll see you later. Have a great day.”
“Yeah, you too, Dad. Sorry! See you later, love you, bye!”
I chucked the phone on to my bedside table and jumped out of my squishy single bed, desperately trying to comb my hair.
“Yeah, Mum! Hang on a sec, I’m coming!”
I threw open my wardrobe and checked out its contents. Jeans, jeans, more jeans; shorts, skirts, leggings, jogging pants…
I took a look outside. Gorgeous sunshine, as far as the eye could see. Not one single cloud. Definite shorts day.
I pulled out a pair of shorts and my favourite T-shirt, shoved them on my bed, and ran down the steep stairs two at a time. At the bottom I took an immediate left, straight into the kitchen, where Mum was battling Lizzy into a high chair and a bowl of apple slices was all over the floor. Lizzy started shouting my name happily as she refused to go into the high chair, and I quickly sprang into action; picked up the random bits of apple and shoved them into the bowl and rinsed them under the tap, then went and helped Mum with the high chair.
“Good morning, Liz-Biz!” I cooed, picking up my sister and giving her a hug.
“Hoh-wy!” she cried, her big blue eyes wide and blonde curls bouncing. She may look like an angel but I promise, an evil, evil spirit can live beneath that innocent exterior. “Hoh-wy, Hoh-wy, Hoh-wy! Mor-neen Hoh-wy! Brekky!”
“That’s right, it’s brekky-time! It’s time to sit in the big chair and eat some yum-yums!” I cried with more enthusiasm than I knew I had.
“Yay!” she squealed, and obediently let me pick her up and put her into the high chair.
“I’ve been trying to get her into that chair for ten minutes!” Mum exclaimed, exhausted. “She’s always so good for you! How do you do it?”